


Threads in Knitted Lace

by nwspaprtaxis



Category: Alias Grace (TV)
Genre: Abortion, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Drabble Collection, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Episode s0102 Part Two, Female Friendship, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Introspection, Mary POV, Pain, Pregnancy, Sharing a Bed, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-25 22:57:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14388858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: Then, before she’s quite registered it, there’swhitehotpainthat makes her clamp down hard on the makeshift bite-guard, the soft wood giving beneath her teeth (she knows she’s added another set of crescent, ridged marks to the tally), and screams as the doctor cuts somethinginside.





	Threads in Knitted Lace

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** A million thanks to **tolakasa** for cheerleading and encouragement despite incessant emails of me whining about this and being the best beta. When I first saw _ALIAS GRACE_ on Netflix, a certain scene in the second episode wouldn’t leave me alone because I wanted more and it spurred my muse into action after a very long, multi-year latent period.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Do not own. Am not making a profit. Just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to CBC, Netflix, Polley and Co., and all that. Yadda, yadda.

Life began and ended in blood and violence. It was a lesson all women eventually learned sooner or later. Mary knew that Grace had learnt that lesson better than most, from the little the girl had revealed of her past, not wishing to speak of much beyond a journey across the sea and having to leave her home. Mary herself understood — there was much she didn’t tell either. Grace had seemed naïve, too innocent, for what she’d seen — she’d been frightened at the first show of blood — and it’d compelled Mary to warn Grace of dangers, to keep watch at the privy, to protect her in the ways she understood so little and to stave her from falling into the snares of the world. Slowly, with whispered words and limbs tangled around torsos for warmth, trust (friendship, love) wove between them, as fragile and strong as a thread in knitted lace.

**::: ::: :::**

She should’ve known from the apple peels, all too thick and broken off too short, paring knife unable to slide between peel and flesh and gain smooth traction, from the way Jeremiah-the-Peddler refused to tell her fortune that she wouldn't have a future. But it didn’t keep her from planning her own parcel of land in a free Canada: a farm she’d share with her husband. She envisions standing on her porch, girl-baby cradled in her arms, dog at her heels. She’d teach her daughter William Lyon Mackenzie’s words the way she drills Grace when they aren’t too tired. (Grace is a fast learner, but Mary considers herself a good teacher.) There’s freedom in whispering forbidden, rebellious words in the night, her front pressed to Grace’s back, wool-clad feet pressed against wool-clad feet. In the twilight-blue of dreams, Mary can see her hopes spiraling before her in an apple-peel road.

**::: ::: :::**

George was a mistake. Mary’d known she shouldn’t have trusted him, shouldn’t have allowed herself be drawn in by his smooth words and warm kisses, how he’d made her feel that maybe this time the lessons would be wrong, that he was sincere and she truly was the only girl in the world for him. And now it’s too late. She feels a heaviness deep in her belly, almost like her monthlies are about to start but _not_ , and when she regurgitates on the clean laundry, she knows with certainty she’d been tied (condemned) to him, well and truly. She dared to have faith, though, when she confides in Grace and the younger girl’s hope spills over the banks of her cynicism, idealism against disenchantment like dawn pushing back night. Instead, Mary finds that she and her child are worth five dollars. It’s Judas money, but it buys her silence.

**::: ::: :::**

There’s a whisper, fervent and furtive as a prayer, passed from woman to woman like a letter, folded up too small and pressed palm-to-palm until it reaches its intended, that Mary picks up at the market along with the fish. There is a doctor who offers help. To whores. A couple of moments with a knife, and it’s all over with and forgotten about. A bit of blood and pain. (What else is there? Such is a woman’s lot.) And a girl could keep on earning a living. For a price. The promise of liberation is tantalizing and Mary saves up the fee (the five dollars help). The weight in her belly grows heavier, dragging her into despair. She thinks it would not be so very hard to step off the docks, sink under, and disappear, but she wants to live. Still, she writes a last will and testament. Just in case.

**::: ::: :::**

It’s clear from Grace’s face, small and frightened and pinched too pale, that the younger girl doesn’t understand. For an instant, Mary wants to slap Grace, to seize her about the shoulders and shake her senseless, to scream at her for being so dense, that she knows full well the risks and dangers of such matters, to be brave for once because Mary is so very frightened and has no other choice. Mary wishes for the luxury of choices, that she could entertain the thoughts of running away with Grace and both of them raising the child on their farm and seeing a free Canada become realized. Such thoughts are folly and Mary isn’t brave enough for the alternative (step off the docks, sink under, and disappear) she knows would be preferable by the Parkinsons. Instead, Mary summons her courage, projects bravado she doesn’t feel, and goes in. Grace follows.

**::: ::: :::**

It’s not what she expects (nothing ever is; she doesn’t know what she anticipated). The doctor isn’t gentle and in a way she’s grateful for; she doesn’t think she could tolerate being treated like spun sugar. Not by him. He throws her onto a (kitchen) table, shoves up her legs, hitching up skirt and petticoats to her waist in rough movements, and thrusts the handle of a wooden spoon between her teeth with the ease of long practice. Mary bites down, tears smarting at the indignity, and half-expects him to take advantage of her. The moment stretches into infinity. She breathes, in-and-out, and focuses on the ceiling. She feels him close, hears the running of water, the creak of the floor. A shard of light flashes across the plaster above her head, like sun reflecting off silver, even though the day is overcast and the drapes are drawn. She breathes, in-and-out.

**::: ::: :::**

Then, before she’s quite registered it, there’s _whitehotpain_ that makes her clamp down hard on the makeshift bite-guard, the soft wood giving beneath her teeth (she knows she’s added another set of crescent, ridged marks to the tally), and screams as the doctor cuts something _inside_. Time disappears — infinity becomes instantaneous. She’s suddenly in Grace’s arms, doesn’t register how she got there, as she feels herself shake and shudder and sweat and cry. All that’s there is the all-consuming agony, a heaviness gathering between her legs, as Grace wraps thin, bony girl arms around her, tucks the shawl around her shoulders, and holds her up with steel strength. Mary wonders how she ever thought Grace was weak as Grace gets her back to the house and up the stairs to their room without anyone seeing. She curls into Grace as she hobbles to their bed, empty and torn-out. She feels like she’s dying.

**::: ::: :::**

The day passes in a haze of patchy butter sunshine and unreality. The deep ache sharpens into cramps that throw everything in sharp, too bright, jagged relief. Mary bites her pillow when she needs to scream. When daylight fades and there’s the soft purple of night, Grace is there. Grace, sweet Grace, who sponges fever-sweat and holds her hand, drags her back from the undertow of pain. The heavy clamminess of blood drenches through petticoat, sheet, and into the mattress. The thought of having to clean away the evidence before Mrs. Honey is the wiser makes her groan. She feels a clot pass. And another. There’s too much blood leaving her and she’s so cold. She’d known she wouldn’t survive. It’d been folly to try. (“Canadians! Do you love freedom? I know you do. Do you hate oppression? Who dare deny it?”) Life began and ended in blood and violence.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments stress me out, but I adore kudos!


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